THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  POT  OF 

GOLD  AND 

OTHER 

POEMS 

By  Amelie  Shaw 


1919 

THE  ZANA-FRANCES  PRESS 
Los  Angeles 


Copyright,     igip, 
by  AMELIE  R.  SHAW 


f* 

5  5^0 


804632 

IBRARY 


To  my  Beloved  Husband, 

JOHN  AUSTIN  SHAW, 

who  by  a  lifetime  of  devotion 

has  inspired  My  Work 

A.  S. 


Pot  of  QoU 

7 

11        Hammocfc  Reverie 

n 

'4 

November  Leaves 

J5 

Pussy  Willow 

16 

Song  of  Eventide 

18 

Brown  Eyes  of  My  Deary 

19 

Voices  of  the  Leaves 

20 

We  Two 

21 

L'Amiiie 

22 

Claribel 

25 

Illumination 

26 

March 

28 

Ou  r  Qarden 

30 

Musings 

33 

Dawn  in  the  City 

35 

Wee  Witch  Woman 

37 

Dark  Hour 

38 

Where  My  Love  Lies  Low 

39 

Lament  of  the  Maine 

41 

|        Dying  Moor 

43 

The  Pot  of  Gold 


THE   CHILD: 

HO  buried  the  big  pot 

of  gold 

At  the  foot  of  the  rain 
bow  old? 
I  shall  search,  I  shall  search  till 

I  find  it, 
And  into  gold-dust  I  will  grind 

it, 

To  gild  everything  that  I  see 
And  make  it  look  lovely  to  me. 
I  care  not  how  long  it  may  take 
This  wonderful  fortune  to  make. 
I  have  so   many  years  all  before 

me, 

And  there  are  no  clouds  hang 
ing  o'er  me; 


So  today,   and    tomorrow,   and 

the  next 
I  shall  search,    and  I  shall  not 

be  vex'd 
If  I  find  it  not  till  long  after; 
I'll    beguile   all   the   way    with 

bright  laughter, 
With  sweet  song,  and  sunshine, 

and  play. 

I  shall  not  grow  weary  all  day; 
For  the  butterflies,  flowers  and 

bees, 
And  the  birds  all  atune  in  the 

trees, 
And  the  squirrels,    so   cunning 

and  shy, 
That  scamper  so  when  you  come 

nigh, 
Will  all  be   my  playmates  and 

friends 
Till  I  come  where  the  rainbow 

ends. 

And  then  there's  the  gay  mead 
ow  brook, 

That  skips  past  many  a  nook, 
And  stops  in  its  onward  course 

never, 

But  sings  and  flows  on  forever. 
I  can  gather  a  few  scattered  chips 
Out  of  these  I  can  fashion  fine 

ships, 


And  launch  them  upon  the  swift 

The  Pot    of 

stream;  Gold 

Then  the  fish  in  its  waters  that 


Page      Nine 

Will  tempt  me  to  linger  and  play. 
Thus  the  time  will  pass  quickly 

away, 
And  my  heart  be  both  happy 

and  bold 
All  the  way  to  the  big    pot   of 

gold! 

YOUTH: 

Today  I  am  twenty  years  old, 
But  as  yet  —  no  pot  of  gold, 
Dazzling  with  its  yellow  sheen, 
Hath  by  my  longing  eyes  been 

seen. 
That  rainbow  cheated  me  all  the 

way  — 

It  faded  long  before  noonday, 
And  left  me  staring  at  the  sky, 
With  no  landmark  to  travel  by. 
Many  times  it  reappeared 
And  my  infant  fancy  cheered. 
Then  quickly  vanished  from  my 

view, 

Leaving  me  without  a  clue. 
But  in  the  sunshine  of  the  hours 


The    i. 

Gold  I  had  my  gold  in  generous  show 

ers; 

P»«*  Ten  And  thus  the  rainbow  pointed 

not 

To  greater  wealth  than  I  had  got. 

And  all  the  way  to  the  pot  of 
gold 

Were  pleasures  that  could  not 

be  bought  or  sold. 
Those  joys  are  o'er;  they  could 
not  last, 

But    vanished   with  my    child 
hood's  past. 

Though  but  a  legend,   it  is  true, 

I've  still  the  pot  of  gold  in  view, 

And  the    many-tinted  bow    of 
hope 

Still  leads  me  on,  with  fate  to 
cope. 

MIDDLE-AQE: 

__,  OR  many  years  with  heart 
|H          and  mind, 

That    pot   of  gold    I've 

strove  to  find. 
But  it  eludes  me  with  a 

trick 
Of  disappearing  all  too  quick, 


Serenely  showing  up  again 

At  the  far  end  of  the  bow  of 
rain. 

Ah,  then  how  bright  my  path 
way  seems! 

How  near  the  substance  of  my 
dreams! 

My  heart  grows  light,  my  step 
more  firm, 

And  life  seems  one  long  happy 
term. 

Then  sudden  the  bright  scene 

is  chang'd, 

Nature  herself  seems  all  deranged; 
The  heavenly  tints  fade  one  by 

one; 
Dark  clouds  arise  and  veil  the 

sun. 
I've  toiled  by  the  light  of  those 

fitful  flashes 
To  the  bitter  end,  and  found  but 

ashes! 
The  bow  of  morn  and  eve  and 

noon 

Alike  are  false  and  hold  no  boon. 
Delusive  hope,    thou    art   for- 

sworn! 
Thy  path  is  strewn  with  wrecks 

forlorn; 


The  Pot  of 
Gold 

Page  Twelve 


You  lure  us   on   with   promise 

fair 
While  o'er  our  heads,  swung  by 

a  hair, 

The  sword  of  fate  is  seen  to  pend, 
A  warning  of  our  destined  end. 
I  would  paint  you  with  a  mask 
Fair  as  anyone  could  ask, 
But  transparent  as  the  mist 
By  the  morning  sunshine  kiss'd! 
While  underneath  this  guise  so 

fair 
Your  own  false  colors  you  should 

wear! 

THREE  SCORE  AND  TEN: 

THE  path  has  been  stony 
and  rough, 
And    of  joy  there   has 

ne'er  been  enough; 
But  abundance  of  hard 
ships  and  woes 
From  the  opening  unto  the  close. 
But  no  longer  I  rail  at  fair  Hope, 
Nor  tug  at  stern  Destiny's  rope; 
But  gather  the  flowers  each  day, 
That  I  chance  to  find  in  my  way: 
And  drink  in  the  birds'  sweetest 
song, 


As  slowly  I  struggle  along. 
And  my  heart  still  is  happy  and 

bold, 
And  I  still  seek  the  big  pot  of 

gold. 

But  not  on  this  side  of  the  stream 

Am  I  looking  to  catch  its  bright 
gleam. 

As  across  the  dark  river  I  gaze, 

I  can  see  through  the  mist  and 
the  haze 

The  far  end  of  the  bow  as  it 
gleams 

With  the  light-from  the  heaven 
ly  beams; 

And  I  know  in  that  Garden,  so 
old 

I  shall  find  the  long-sought  Pot 
of  Gold. 


The  Pot    of 
Gold 


Page  Thir 
teen 


Reverie 

A  HAMMOCK  REVERIE. 

Page  Four- 

ERE  in  my  hammock,  swinging  light. 

As  if  afloat  on  some  clear  stream, 
Spellbound  I  lie,  and  idly  dream, 
LulPd  by  soft  breezes  of  the  night. 

The  proud  trees  toss  their  heads,  and  sweep 
A  courtesy  to  the  Queen  of  Night. 
I  fain  would  be  a  fairy  wight 

To  slide  adown  the  moonbeams  steep. 

To  swing  upon  the  topmost  limb, 
Far  out  into  the  shining  air; 
I'd  follow  thee,  O  Moon  so  fair, 

From  brightest  spheres  to  regions  dim. 

Or  I  would  be  yon  filmy  cloud, 
That  sails  with  thee  so  swittly  by; 
So  'round  the  world  we  two  could  fly, 

Along  with  night  the  sombre-browed. 

Or  let  me  be  thine  owlet,  Love, 

That  hiding  darkly  sings  "Goo-hoo! 
I  love  but  you!  I  love  but  you! 

Beam  kindly  on  me  from  above." 


Thus,  in  my  hammock,  swinging  light,  November 

I  dream  beneath  the  magic  rays, 

Till  sleep  her  finger  on  me  lays,  Page  Fifteen 

And  shuts  thine  image  from  my  sight. 


NOVEMBER  LEAVES 

H  dear  dead  leaves  of  a  dear 

Odead  past, 
When  the  joy  of  living  was   at 

its  height! 
As,  fluttering  in  the  autumn 

blast; 
You  seek  Earth's  bosom  in  shivering  fright. 

I  vaguely  wonder  if  that  dear  past 

Held  all  of  joy  that  was  meant  for  me; 

If  summers  to  come  will  speed  as  fast 
As  that  brief  season  of  ecstacy? 

Will  next  year  come  as  a  glad  full  year, 
With  its  buds  and  blossoms,  and  golden 
sheaves? 

Or,  coming  with  ghosts  of  mem'ries  dear, 
Bring  but  a  garland  of  withered  leaves? 


PUMV  PUSSY  WILLOW 

Willow 


Page  Sixteen  MAIDEN  fair  without  a  care 

Came  tripping  o'er  the  hill-o. 
Her  eye  was  bright,  her  heart 

was  light 
As  the  foam  upon  the  billow. 


A 


She  trilled  a  song  as  she  sped  along, 
In  young  life's  joyous  morning, 

While  in  her  heart,  like  a  thing  apart; 
Love's  tender  light  was  dawning.   ^ 

The  time  was  spring,  and  on  the  wing* 
Birds  to  their  mates  were  calling; 

And  white  and  round  upon  the  ground 
The  cherry  blooms  were  falling. 

Thus,  blithe  and  gay,  she  went  her  way, 
And  came  unto  the  mill-o, 

Where  tender  green  with  silver  sheen, 
Wild  grew  the  Pussy  Willow. 


A  gallant  youth  with  eyes  of  truth 
Rode  gaily  o'er  the  hill-o; 


teen 


And  came  to  where  the  maiden  fair  Pussv 

Sat  dreaming  by  the  mill-o.  Willow 

He  left  his  horse  to  crop  the  gorse  Page  Seven- 

That  grew  along  the  hill-o, 
And  found  his  way  without  delay 

To  her  side  beneath  the  willow. 

He  kissed  her  twice,  he  kissed  her  thrice, 

Two  young  hearts  felt  a  thrill-o; 
While  tender  green  with  silver  sheen 

Bright  glowed  the  Pussy  Willow. 

But  with  quick  pride  she  drew  aside; 

And  smote  him  with  a  will-o. 
Rough  flows  the  stream  of  love's  young 
dream; 

Sad  drooped  the  Pussy  Willow. 

Then  with  air  so  grand  he  kissed  her  hand 

She  could  not  say  him  nil-o; 
And  so  they  both  did  plight  their  troth 

Beside  the  Pussy  Willow. 


song  of  A  SONQ  OF  EVENTIDE 

Eventide  .  . 

ROM  their  haunts  among  the  mead- 

P«ge  Eighteen  OWS, 

Hear  the  cricket's  good  night  call! 
See  the  fireflies  gem  the  shadows, 

Flash  and  hold  high  carnival! 
Little  magic  torches  they 
To  light  the  fairies  on  their  way. 

Softly,  softly  creeps  the  twilight, 
Silently  the  shadows  fall; 

See  the  round  moon  climb  the  hilltops, 
Trailing  wierdly  over  all 
The  sleeping  earth  a  ghostly  pall. 

Away  up  in  the  heavens  so  far, 

Shines  one  lonely  little  star. 

Fair  head  on  my  breast  reclining, 
Nestle  close  the  while  I  sing; 

Baby  arms  my  neck  entwining, 
Make  for  me  a  magic  ring 
Round  which  sweetest  fancies  cling. 

Happy  angels  ling'ring  nigh, 

Chant  for  thee  a  lullaby! 

Moonbeams  kiss  thine  eyelids  down 
O'er  thy  heavy  eyes  of  brown. 


Brown  Eyes 

THE  BROWN  EYES  OF  MY  DEARY  o(  M*  Dcarv 

T  T     i        i  r  i  Pa8e  N"»e- 

H  the  brown  eyes  of  my  deary  teen 

Shine  across  my  pathway  dreary 
With  a  glance  so  bright  and  cheery, 

Just  like  twin  stars  from  above. 
Their  warm  depths  are  full  of  splendor 
And  their  glances  are  so  tender 
That  the  fires  in  them  engender 

Strange,  sweet  images  of  love. 

Oh,  the  brown  eyes  of  my  deary, 
I  believe  them  without  query, 
And  I  never,  never  weary 

Of  their  glances  fond  and  true. 
They  can  flash  with  firm  decision, 
Or  can  sparkle  with  derision; 
I  can  see  them  in  my  vision, 

And  they  thrill  me  through  and  through 

CHORUS: 

Oh  the  eyes  of  brown  are  the  eyes  of  love, 
Steadfast  and  true  as  the  stars  above. 
Those  are  the  eyes  that  were  made  to  woo; 
None  in  the  world  so  tender  and  true. 


Voices    of 

THE  VOICES  OF  THE  LEAVES 

Page  Twenty 

How  I  love  to  he  and  listen 
To  the  voices  of  the  leaves, 

As  they  sway  and  dance  and  glisten, 

While  the  sunlight  thro'  them  weaves 

Now  a  thousand  shifting  patterns 
On  the  ground  below  the  eaves. 

How  delightedly  they  clatter 

From  their  perch  upon  the  trees; 

And  how  lovingly  they  chatter 
Nodding,  glancing  winsomely; 

How  their  innocent  abandon 

Helps  to  cheer  and  comfort  me! 

Hear  them  whisper  in  the  moonlight 
Of  the  great  earth's  mysteries! 

Secrets  of  the  merry  June  night, 

How  they  fling  them  to  the  breeze! 

But  so  softly  that  no  mortal 
Ever  understands  or  sees. 

Save  the  soul,  that  nigh  to  falling 

From  great  heights  to  soundless  deeps, 

Listens  to  them  calling,  calling: 
"God  the  Father  never  sleeps, 

But  from  out  the  starless  spaces 
Watchful  care  above  us  keeps." 


We  Two 

Happy  leaves  above  me  swaying, 

Shadows  dancing  at  my  feet!  Page  Twent 

Now  I  hear  your  voices  saying:  One 

"Life  and  love  forever  meet!" 
From  the  Mother  arms  that  rock  you 

Comes  the  murmur:  "Life  is  sweet." 


WE  TWO 

Howe'er,  where'er  we  two  may  chance  to 

roam, 

No  matter  if  it  be  on  solid  land, 
Or  on  the  great  uncertain  sea, 
Or  should  those  strange  ships  of  the  air 
Become  our  bearers  to  some  far-off  strand, 
Still,  heart  to  heart,  and  hand  in  hand,  we  two 
Will  rove  content  the  wide  world  thro'  and  thro', 

Where'er  we   chance   to   stray  our   home 

shall  be; 

Nor  ever  shall  our  spirits  feel  unrest, 
Nor  seek,  in  discontent,  to  find 
Another  heart,  or  other  home  more  blest; 
But  in  each  other  find  our  world—our  home, 
Howe'er,  where'er  we  two  may  chance  to  roam. 


O 


L'AMITIE 

TRUEST   friend  of  that  day, 

long  gone  by: 
How  tender-sweet  those  times 

when  you  and  I 
Roamed  the  still  wood,  or  sat 

'neath  spreading  tree, 
When  the  days  were   full  of 

golden  hours 

For  you  and  me. 

None  knew  that  secret  trysting-place  of  ours; 
None,  save  the  bees,  that  droned  amid  the 

flowers; 

Or  song  birds  twittering  in  the  gnarled  tree, 
Whose  waving  branch  so  oft  did  shelter 

You  and  me. 

Our  young  hearts  knew  no  shadow  in  their 

dream; 
Our  young  lives  flowed  on  like  that  quiet 

stream 
Which  gently  rippled  past  our  trysting  tree, 


While  we  sweet  converse  held,  or  laughed 

In  girlish  glee. 
Till    love's   young  demon  came  upon   the 

scene, 
With    poison-tipped    arrows,    tinged   with 

green, 

And  changed  it  all  for  you  and  me;  the  tie 
That  held  us  twain;  asunder  fell — 

Oh  day  gone  by! 

Our  bluest  sky  then  changed  to  dullest  gray; 
Our  brooklet  no  more  trilled  its  joyous  lay. 
The  song  birds  chattered  angrily;  while 

brown 

And  bare   the  sighing   branches   shivered. 

Bending  down. 

I  loved  him  first,  but  he  n'er  thought  of  me, 
Till,  weary  of  your  love  and  loyalty, 
He  sought  distraction  in  another  face, 
And  saw  in  me  his  ideal  of  beauty 

And  of  grace. 

You  thought   me   false,    because    for    one 

brief  spell, 

After  your  parting  and  your  last  farewell 
I  basked  me  in  the  sunshine  of  his  smile, 
Without  the  faintest  thought  of  treach'ry, 

Or  of  guile. 


L'Amitie 

But  when  he  spoke  I  saw  how  it  must  seem, 
Page  Twenty-          And  why  my  sun  must  set,  and  that  no 
Four  beam 

From  him  could  light  me  on  my  dreary  way; 
That  heav'n  had  vanished;  all  was  dark! 

Oh  weary  day! 

Then  shame  despair  and  anger  in  me  burned 
His  proffered  love  in  hot  disdain  I  spurned; 
And  as  he,  white-faced,  sprang  unto  his  feet, 
I  mocked  him  there  with  lying  lips; 

Oh,  bitter-sweet! 

Oh,  day  of  horror,  ne'er  to  be  effaced 

From  mem'ry's  page!  And  life  how  drear  a 
waste, 

Since  that  dread  hour,  when  o'er  his  mang 
led  clay 

We  stood!  You,  unrelenting, 

Turned  away! 

And  I!     I  could  not  speak,  for  shame  and 

pride; 
For  struggling  with  the  love  I  fain  would 

hide! 

So  drifted  we  apart;  our  sev'ral  ways 
We  went,  and  knew  no  more  the  love 

Of  former  days. 


Now,    after  all  these  saddened  years,   my 

Nell 
W7  1>(C11>    ...  .   .  „  Page  Twenty- 

We  meet  again;  there  s  nothing  more  to  tell. 
Here  at  our  Martyr's  grave  let's  pledge  anew 
The  girlish  love  so  long  estranged 

From  me  and  you. 


CLARIBEL 

LARIBEL,  my  Claribel: 
Sweetest  wild  rose  of  the  dell, 
Knowest  thou  I  love  thee  well? 
Tender  is  thy  heart,  and  true. 
Fresher  than  the  morning  dew 
Are  thy  lips  of  scarlet  hue. 

Soft  and  dark  as  summer's  night 
Are  thine  eyes,  whose  wondrous  light 
Thrills  me  with  a  mad  delight. 

With  their  sweet  voluptuous  glance, 
Making  all  my  pulses  dance, 
Holding  me  as  in  a  trance. 

Dusky  locks  thy  brow  embrace; 

Sweeping  lashes  seek  to  grace 

The  ivory  paleness  of  thy  face. 

Lilies  in  thy  curved  cheek  dwell, 
Hiding  what  they  dare  not  tell — 
The  soul's  white  flame,  my  Claribel. 


Illumination 

Page  Twenty-  ILLUMINATION 

Six 

WAS  only  yesterday  I  thought 

you  false. 

r  -  ^        I  counted  you  no  better  than 
|  the  rest; 

•*•          Who  came  to  woo  my  fortune 

and  estate, 
Yet   would  have  given  up   all 

that  I  possess'd 
To  know  the  truth  -  my  good  or  evil  fate! 

Today  at  noon  I  wandered  forth 

Thro'  meadows  where  the  soft-eyed  cattle 

graze, 
Past  thickets  where  the  night  birds  sit  and 

dream, 
And  sat  me  down  where  willows  wave  and 

dip 
Their  branches  in  the  quiet  cooling  stream. 

The  idle  locusts  dinned  their  drowsy  song 
In  measured  cadence  on  the  heated  air; 
And  birds  skimmed  noiselessly  across  the 

blue; 
A  loud-voiced  bee  the  modest  clover  wooed. 


A  yellow  dandelion  here  and  there  illumination 

Nodded  his  golden  head  in  simple  glee, 
And  laughed  at  his  old  grandsire's  hoary          Page  Twenty- 
locks,  Seven 
Blown  by  the  errant  wind  across  the  lea. 

LulPd  by  these  many  symphonies,  I  slept, 
And,  dreaming,  felt,  unseen,  your  presence 

near; 

Beheld  your  eyes,  aglow  with  deep  desire, 
Now  mirrored  in  the  streamlet  at  my  feet. 

Dumb  creatures  of  the  wood  and  meadow 

came, 

And  all  stood  up  before  me  without  fear; 
A  silent  group,  with  steadfast;  wistful  eyes, 
That  seemed  at  once  to  chide  and  to  entreat. 

These  vanished,  and  from  overhead 

A  song  of  whirring  wings  now  smote  the 

air. 

From  empyrean  heights  a  snow  white  dove 
Flew  straight  into  my  breast,  and  nestled 

there. 

A  flood  of  peace  enveloped  all  my  soul, 
And  so  I  knew  that  henceforth  love  was 

mine, 
And,  looking  up,  beheld  your  eyes  of  blue, 


Through   which  the  spirit  in    you  glowed 

Twenty-  Divine, 

Compelling,  loyal,  tender,  true. 

Eight 

I  woke.     The  sun  in  heaven  was  low. 

His  slanted  beams  in  shimmering  splendor 

lay 
Athwart  the  trees,  the  meadow  slope,  the 

stream, 

And  all  the  air  proclaimed  a  golden  day, 
And  whispered  soft:  "How  fair,  how  true  a 

dream!" 


MARCH 


HO  born  in  Lent  is  hated  of  all 

W  flesh," 

So  runs  the  adage,  old  as  Lent  it 
self. 

on)       But  this  is  not  the  reason  why,  Sir 
C?  March, 

Poor  shivering  mortals  dread  your 

coming  so, 

And  long  to  see  you  "laid  upon  the  shelf." 
Too  young  in  years,  my  boy;  too  old  in  heart 


March 

To  sympathize  with  flesh,  you  go  your  head 
long  way 

Unmoved  by  censure,  dubbed  a  crank  by  all, 
You  neither  mend  your  ways  nor  hasten  to 
depart. 

But  if  we  hate  your  roughness  and  the  sting 
Your  biting  airs  impart  to  our  frail  bones, 
We  more  admire  the  courage  which  you 

bring 

To  carry  out  your  mission,  and  the  strength, 
The  dauntless  will,  the  high  resolve  to  make 
The  earth  a  fitting  place  for  Spring's  fair 

Queen 
To  work  in,  and  to  coax  with  smiles  _and 

tears 
The  dormant  soul  of  Nature  to  awake. 

The  Warrior  King  you  are  of  all  the  year; 

The  bravest  and  the  brawniest  of  the  band. 

A  minstrel,  too,  of  no  mean  power,  you 
come 

With  sound  of  pipe,  with  twang  of  harp; 
with  hand 

That  tunes  the  mighty  strings  to  wild,  ex 
ultant  strains, 

While  wielding  sceptre  high  o'er  all  the 
waiting  land. 


O 


Our  Qarden 

THE  Freshness  of  the  gardens, 
In  the  cool  air  of  the  morning! 
As  they  offer  up  the  incense 
From  a  thousand  scented  blos 
soms, 
To  the  Sun-God  as  he  rises  in 

the  heavens. 

O,  the  beauty  of  the  roses, 
Basking  in  the  glorious  sunshine 

Of  a  golden  day  in  June! 
And  the  sweetness  of  the  lilies,  in  the  dus 
ky  shades  of  evening, 

With  their  hearts  of  gold  reflected  in  the 
glimpses  of  the  moon! 

Children,  listen  to  my  story;  once  your  fa 
ther  had  a  garden, 

In  the  which  he  toiled  and  pottered. 

First  he  dug  and  then  he  planted;  then 
most  carefully  he  watered, 


Our  Garden 

Till  these  children  of  his  fancy  grew  and 

blossowed  into  beauty,  Page  Thi«v- 

Like  to  flowers  of  Paradise.  One 

Every  morning,  every  evening,  with  a  care 

that  never  slackened; 
With  a  zest  that  grew  to  passion,  labored  he 

among  these  beauties; 
Watched  their  growth  with  loving  eyes. 

One  there  was  that   watched   his   labors, 

squatting  flat  among  the  spaces 
Made  by  stems  of  these  sweet  flow'rets; 
Keeping  close  within  their  shadows;  brown 

as  the  earth  to  which  he  cuddled; 
Noiseless  as  the  creeping  wormlet,  boring  in 

the  earth  beneath  him; 
Silent  as  the  air  about  him,  motionless  as 

bronz-ed  sphinx, 
Save  when  his  threadlike  tongue,  outdart' 

ing,  catches  some  unwary  insect 
In  its  cryptic  mazy  kinks. 

Stared  with  eyes  that  scintillated  with  the 

fireflash  and  the  sparkle 
Of  the  legendary  jewel  in  his  ancient,  warty 

head; 


Our  Garden          Blinked  as  one  who  ponders  sagely,  winked 
as  to  himself  and  said: 

Page  Thirty- 

Two  "All  this  labor's  for  my  comfort, 

And  this  bustling,  busy  fellow — 
Why,  I  do  not  even  know  him, 
Am  not  e'en  on  speaking  .terms  with— 
Yet  he  builds  for  me  this  grotto, 
Wherein  I  may  live  forever, 
Within  easy  reach  of  food! 
Now  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to 
Something  do  for  this  fine  fellow, 
And  show  forth  my  gratitude. 
I  will  call  my  friends  together: 
Hop  the  Jumper,  Bill  the  Shallower, 
Puff  the  Blower,  and  their  kinsfolk. 
We  will  study  up  the  weather, 
And  on  eve  of  rainy  morrow 
We  will  thereupon  assemble 
And  parade  along  the  pathway, 
So  warning  him  of  coming  rain. 
Thus  will  he  be  saved  much  labor; 
This  indeed  will  be  a  blessing." 

Thus  did  the  Toad  repay  your  father;  and 
by  this  faithful  loving  service 

Lived  undisturbed  amid  the  spaces,  made  by 
the  stems  of  these  sweet  flow'rets; 


And  through  the  golden  days  of  summer, 

Dozed  and  dreamed  the  hours  away.  page  Thirty- 

\  i         7  Three 

Moral: 

The  precious  jewel  in  the  eyes 
Reflecls  where  loving  service  lies, 

And  brightens  every  load. 
No  Toad  should  be  without  its  Qarden, 

No  Qarden  be  without  its  Toad. 


MUSINQS 

ERE  in  the  dead  of  night, 
j— j  Or  in  the  watchful  morn, 
•*•  •*-  Before  God  brings  the  light, 

Or  ere  the  day  is  born, 
Will  she,  thinkst  thou,  come  in  to  see 
If  all  is  well  with  thee? 

"I  must  have  wandered  far 

Since  I  began  to  roam 
From  that  bright  distant  star 

Which  was  my  native  home; 
For  I  can  neither  feel  nor  hear 
Aught  from  that  distant  sphere." 


The  babe  just  come  to  earth, 
Pa  e  Thi  Did  angel  guards  attend  her? 

I  think  not;  at  her  birth 

None  of  them  did  befriend  her, 
For  then  she  gave  a  cry  of  fright, 
Like  one  hurled  from  a  height. 

"I  must  have  wandered  long, 
My  face  has  grown  so  old. 

The  years  before  me  throng, 

Their  memories  I  still  hold, 

Of  all  their  busy  days  of  yore, 

So  full  of  youthful  lore." 

Yes,  in  the  silent  night, 

Or  in  the  watchful  morn; 

Before  God  sends  the  light, 
Before  the  day  is  born, 

Thy  mother,  Sweet,  will  come  to  see 
If  all  is  well  with  thee. 


Dawn  in  the  City 


HO  is  it  that,  with  eyes  of  soft 
est  gray, 

W        Peers  through  the  sable  fringes 
of  the  night; 
And  slowly  pushing  each  dark 

strand  away, 

Grows  with  each  onward  step 
more  bright? 

Aurora,  peerless  daughter  of  the  Sun, 
Why  waste  the  glories  of  your  pageantry 

On   sightless    buildings,     piles    of  soulless 

stones; 
Dull  monuments  of  Industry? 

Fresh  as  an  infant,  when  his  sleep  is  done, 
Thou  comest,    at  the  first  faint  call    of 
morn. 

Ere  mighty  Sol  begins  his  daily  run, 
Thou  dost  the  eastern  sky  adorn. 


"The  child  at  prayer   beside  his    mother's 
knee 

Becomes  a  seraph;  lighted  by  my  glow. 
The  face  of  age,  illumin-ed  by  me, 

No  trace  of  sorrow  seems  to  know. 

"The  poet's  fantasy,  the  artist's  skill, 

Have  sung  and  pictured  me  in  every  land. 

With  soft  veiled  lightning-flash  I  flood  and 

thrill 
The  bosom  of  the  ice-bound  strand. 

"And  yet  I  deem  it  sweeter  far  to  rove 
Amid  the  garish  monuments  of  men; 

To  seek,  with  gentle  ministry  of  love, 
In  palaces,  or  in  crowded  den 

"The  restless  sufferer,  tossing  through  the 

night, 
The  aching  heart  of  sorrow's    sleepless 

child; 

And  soothed  to  rest  by  my  caressing  light, 
And  into  dreamless  slumber  thus  beguiled 

"The  wight  who  toils  from  rise  to  set  of  sun, 
Dreams  on,  through  all  the  solemn,  silent 
dark, 

Till,  gliding  in,  like  some  gray-hooded  nun, 
I  bring  the  music  of  the  lark." 


Wee  Witch 

Woman 
Page   Thirty- 

THE  WEE  WITCH  WOMAN 

HE  is  cunning  and  petite, 
With  a  waist  so  trim  and  neat, 
And  the  slimmest  hands  and  feet! 
Hands  that, beckon 
Forth,  I  reckon, 
Spirits  fair 
From  distant  air. 
Feet  that  glide  in  "woven  paces," 
To  and  fro,  and  leave  no  traces. 
Unknown  words,  like  voice  of  birds, 
Conjuring  up  misty  faces. 
Over  there  is  the  chair 
Into  which  I  sit  and  stare 
At  the  Witch,  so  wierd  and  fair; 
Till  my  eyes 
Fall  downwise; 
And  my  head 
Drops  like  lead 
On  my  breast, 
In  blissful  rest. 

And  I  sink,  and  sink  down  deep, 
Into  dreamless  sleep. 
While  the  Witch, 
From  a  niche, 


The  Dark 

Hour 

Page  Thirty- 
EiRht 


Takes  a  silken  switch, 
With  perfume  rich, 

And  soft  ly  waves  it  to  and  fro, 
While  downy  things, 
Like  angels'  wings, 

Enfold  me  in  their  slumb'rous  rings; 
And  all  my  senses  steep 
In  oblivion  deep. 


THE  DARK  HOUR 

MISS  thee  most  in  that  dark  hour, 

I  Ere  yet  the  dawn  creeps  up  the 

eastern  sky, 
Or  young   birds,    half  awak'ning 

from  their  sleep, 
Begin  to  chant  old  matins  drowsily. 

That  is  the  hour  when  Memory,  unsealed, 
Shows  me  half-buried  images  and  scenes; 
Lost  loves  that  come  and  vanish,  half  re 
vealed, 

Like  dreams  that  mock  us  with  their  fan 
tasies. 

These  forms,  like  pictures  on  a  screen  un 
furled, 

Change  oft,  pursued  by  that  dread  phan 
tom,  Fear, 


Till   glorious  Morn,    sweet  mother  of  the 

world, 
Steals  in  upon  me,  beaming  tenderly. 

In  that  lone  hour  my  soul  grows  weak,  and 

longs 
To  feel  the  warmth  and  comfort  of  thy 

love; 
And  in  that  shelter,    free   from   haunting 

throngs, 
Await  with  thee  the  dawning,  peacefully. 


WHERE  MY  LOVE  LIES  LOW 

OH  I  know,  yes  I  know 
Where  my  Love  is  lying  low. 
And  'tis  there  I  love  to  go 
When  the  shadows  on  the  hill 
Creep  and  lengthen,  as  they  will; 
Where  my  Love  lies  low. 

Wheer  my  Love  is  lying  low, 
There  the  purple  violets  grow, 
Yellow  dandelions  glow, 
And  as  soon  as  day's  begun 


Where  My 

Lift  happy  faces  to  the  sun, 
Where  my  Love  lies  low. 

Page  Forty 

Oh,  I  know,  yes  I  know 
How  the  brooklet  sings  below 
Where  my  Love  is  lying  low. 
And  how  merrilly  the  trees 
Wave  their  long  arms  in  the  breeze, 
Where  my  Love  lies  low. 

Where  my  Love  is  lying  low 
Drowsy  insects  come  and  go, 
Butterflies  flit  to  and  fro; 

Crickets,  hiding  in  the  grass, 

Chirrup  gaily  as  I  pass, 

Where  my  Love  lies  low. 

Oh,  I  know,  yes  I  know 

Where  my  Love  is  lying  low. 

There  the  night  winds  gently  blow 
On  the  hillside;  looking  down 
On  the  hushed  and  sleeping  town, 

There  my  Love  lies  low. 


Lament  of 
the  Maine 


THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  MAINE 

On  the  raising  of  the  U.  S.  S.  Maine  from  the  bottom  of 
Havana  Harbor,   January,  1912 

HY  did  ye  leave  us  so  long, 

WMe  and  my  faithful  band, 
O  men  of  the  loyal  hearts 

and  strong, 
With    never   a   helping 

hand? 
Ye  freed  the  living,  why 

not  the  dead? 

Why  did  ye  not  then  set  them  free? 
Why,  oh  why  did  ye  make  of  me 
Naught  but  a  charnel-house  under 
the  sea? 

I  tried  my  brave  ones  to  keep, 

As  we  sank  to  our  muddy  rest; 
And    held  them    close   as    they    fell 
asleep 

Upon  my  shattered  breast. 
After  the  living  come  the  dead, 

Why  did  ye  not  then  set  them  free? 
Why,  O  Men,  did  ye  make  of  me 

Naught  but  a  charnel-house,  under 
the  sea? 


Lament  of 

the  Maine  Long  years  did  I  watch  them  in  awe, 

Page  Pony-  As  they  nodded  and  stared  at  me; 

TWO  Bloated,  rotten  and  shrunken,  I  saw 

Their  flesh  melt  into  the  sea. 
Still  I  nursed  the  bones  of  that  faith 
ful  band, 

With  arms  tight-pinioned  in  the  sand 
Ah,  woe  is  me,  that  I  should  be 
Naught  but  a  charnel-house,  under 
the  sea! 

And  now  ye  would  rob  me  of  these, 

The  bones  I  cherished  so  long, 
That  once  wore  flesh  and  fought  on 
the  seas, 

With  me,  when  my  ribs  were  strong. 
Now  that  the  tears  have  all  been  shed 

Render  up  to  the  mourners  their 

dead; 
Bury  me  where  there  is  none  to  weep: 

Six  hundred  fathoms  in  the  deep! 


The  Dying  Moor 


TOLD  my  love  beheath  the  tall 

date  palm, 

_  That  reaches  upward   to   the 

'  watchful  sky. 

|  O'er  the  still  land  fell  night's 

soft  brooding  calm; 
The  rising  moon  gleamed  like 

a  silver  scythe 
In  a  broad  field  of  azure  set. 
Light  zephyrs  stirred  the  air  with  od'rous 

balm. 

Each  star  set  in  the  jewelled  belt  of  heaven 
Did  seem  to  twinkle  with  approving  ray, 
Bidding  godspeed  to  love  and  me. 
My  Zelda,  her  soft  eyes  now  lit  with  fire, 
Stole  trom  the  sacred  altars  of  the  Gods, 
Now  deeply  dark  with  unsolved  mysteries, 
Seemed  dumb  before  my  wondrous  tale  of 

love, 
While  in  each  change  her  soul  stood  forth. 


:  Dying 

Moor  Her  white  veil  shimmered  like  a  silver  mist 

Beneath  the  blue  dome  of  the  circling  skies. 

ge  Forty-  Her   fair  hair  by  the  mellow   moonbeams 

Four  kissed, 

Enhanced  the  dark'ning  splendor  of  her  eyes 

All  glowing  with  love's  ecstacy. 

Ah,  Hassan's  steel  a  bitter  flavor  had! 

As,  driven  by  his  vengeance-seeking  aim, 

It  clove  a  bloody  pathway  thro'  my  side, 

Leaving  me  of  all  sense  bereft. 

But  not  for  long  I  lay  there  like  one  dead, 

For  did  not  Zelda's  shriek  ring  in  my  ears 

And  nerve  me  to  shake  off  that  rigid  grasp 

That  strove  to  drag  my  fainting  soul  away 

From  a  fair  world  of  life  and  love! 

What  if  I  stole  her  from  him?  She  was  mine 

By  right  of  her  sweet  will  and  perfect  love. 

My  soul  it  will  not  rest  in  Paradise 

Till  it  doth  look  upon  her  face! 

Oh  Allah,  grant  my  prayer,  and  leave  me 

free 

To  seek  mine  enemy  throughout  the  world! 
No  matter  in  what  form  of  bird  or  beast, 
Or  e'en  of  serpent,  so  that  I  may  find 
My  enemy,  and  my  lost  love! 
Then  ho  for  Hassan's  blood!  And  after  that, 
In  lowly  shape  to  be  content  for  aye 
In  her  sweet  presence  to  exist! 


Designed  and  Executed  by 

The  ZANA-FRANCES  PRESS 

November,   igip 


THE  LTBB 

UNIVERSE:  V  I.-*1  CALIFORNIA 
ANGELES 


PS 


Shaw  - 


i,L.',?."i5V  WILITY 


3537    The  pot  of 
S5302p  gold  and  other 
poems. 


PS 
3537 

S5302p 


